Waking Up from a Lie
by Bobbie
Summary: Two years after the events of "It's My Life". Spike and Faye have unfinished business between them. *COMPLETE*
1. Letting Go, Hanging On

Disclaimer:  Not mine.  Wish they were. With every lie that I lived 

_Part of me would fade_

Into this empty shadow I've become 

_And now I feel so numb._

_I no longer know myself_

_But I still know you._

_…This was my life._

_It never made much sense to me._

--SEATBELTS featuring STEVE CONTE

Letting Go, Hanging On 

If Jet could only see him now.  He wouldn't hesitate in telling him how ridiculous he was being.

He couldn't see it that way.  For him, nothing had ever made any sense.  For him, a trip in an attempt to piece together what was left of his life was probably as sensible as it was going to get.

Even if it meant going to see old Bull.

He swung his jacket over one shoulder, eyes on the red dust that dominated the ground beneath his feet.  He turned halfway round to gaze upon his aircraft, parked some distance away.  One corner of his mouth hitched as he took in every dent and scratch.  The old ship seemed to call to him, as though, in some way, it knew of his purpose.  He'd made a lot of memories with that hunk of junk.  It'd be a shame to retire it after fifteen years.

He shifted his focus upward, to the dark sky above him, littered with stars.  He took in the entire view, in time distinguishing moving ships from fixed pinpoints of light.  His thoughts drifted towards the Bebop, and for a moment, he pondered where the old wreck might be, and who owned her; whether the fishing vessel was doing what it had been built to do instead of serving as the home for a bunch of way-ward vagabonds.  But the moment passed quickly, and his attentions returned to the task at hand.

He was determined.  He was almost thirty-three.  Not that it mattered, really, how old he was, but the number commanded some introspection.  Thirty-three and no home; thirty-three and no wife; thirty-three and no job, not really, anyway; thirty-three and feeling ninety-five.  Where were all his prospects?  What had happened to his dreams, his goals?  Where had he wanted to be at thirty-three?

A bitter chuckle escaped him as long, deliberate strides began once again to carry him across the landscape.  He'd known exactly the answer to that up until five years ago:  Dead.  He'd never really been one for looking towards the future.  Not when your whole life revolved around your past.  He never thought of having a career, never thought of "settling down", or growing old, of moving on; he didn't think he'd ever need to.

He glanced up from the ground, squinting.  In the distance, he could see pale smoke rising, the eerie dance of shadows and light from a flame.  He paused again in his trek, wondering why he was so damn hesitant.  He wanted to know what his future held for him, didn't he?  Making up his mind to shed his old skin hadn't been so hard, when he thought about it.  Jet's leaving had been the final push, forcing him to sell the Bebop.  Being a cowboy wasn't so appealing when you had to do it alone.  Hell, he was even willing to give up the suit and his ship, start completely over.  So what was the problem?

He already knew the answer.  He just wasn't ready to admit it.  Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a long sigh, and set off with renewed confidence that he was, in fact, doing the right thing, for once.

No matter how much it hurt.

****

"You are afraid, Swimming Bird."

The ancient shaman's voice had a way of reaching into him and pulling out what should have been obvious all along.  There was no magic, really, in what was revealed when Spike came to see him.  The old guy just called it as he saw it.  Most of the time, Spike didn't want to believe that simple truth, but not wanting to believe didn't make it any less real or true.

Spike had been sitting across from Laughing Bull, his legs crossed with his wrists resting on his bony knees.  Barefoot and shirtless, he'd held that position for so long it seemed everything below his waist had gone numb.  He paid no heed, having said nothing since his arrival, wordlessly joining the sage in quiet meditation. The silence having been broken, he opened his eyes and stared hard at the blank face of the Indian.  He willed the old man to look him in the eye, just once, instead of watching that damn pile of sand grow steadily smaller in the palm of his wrinkled hand.

"A dead man who walks has nothing to live for.  That is what you fear."

The younger man's jaw tightened reflexively, the only outward sign of his growing impatience.  Some things would never change.  "For once, old man, I wish you'd tell me something I don't know."

He received no immediate reply.  Minutes passed, in which Spike found it more difficult to breathe.  An invisible weight pressed against his chest, and something inside twisted.  _Shit, is that it?  Is that all he's got to say?  What's it mean?  Do I go throw myself from a fucking building and hope to hell I stay dead this time?_

The sand stopped flowing.  Spike's focus shifted from the sand, to Bull's placid face, and back again.  _For fuck's sake, say something!_

The old Indian opened his eyes, his gaze hooded, seemingly staring through Spike.  One might be led to believe he had trouble with his vision, but Spike knew better.  Those eyes saw more than some people ever wanted to reveal.  Silence dominated, save for the pounding of his heart and the barely controlled rhythm of his breathing.  Bull was right.  He really was afraid.  

"What?  What do you see?" Spike's need to know got the better of him.  But again, the man said nothing, looking as still as a statue, wearing a mask of indifference that disturbed Spike to no end.  Muttering a stifled curse under his breath, Spike pushed himself, perhaps a little too quickly, to his feet, his anger anchoring him to where he stood.  He ignored the painful needles and pins as the blood returned to his legs, awkwardly fetching his shirt and jerking it over his head.  White spots blurred his vision briefly, a consequence of having risen too fast.

"Fuck it, then," he growled, blinking rapidly as the spots faded, looking around for his jacket and shoes.  "The one time I actually come looking for answers about myself, and all you fucking give me is a reason for putting a bullet in my brain."

He felt like going on, venting all his frustrations on the crazy bastard just to see if he could get a reaction, but thought of better ways of wasting his time.  His jacket on one arm and his shoes cradled in another, he turned around to leave.

"A dead man who walks has nothing to live for, but you are alive, Swimming Bird."

Spike's anger evaporated with those words, leaving only fear and, surprisingly, hope.  Pausing in the doorway, he canted his head, sensing the sage had more to say.

"Twice dead, because of a woman.  Now alive…." Spike's brow cocked slightly as he gazed sidelong at the withered form speaking to him. To his amazement, Old Bull was staring back at him, though his ancient eyes betrayed no thought or emotion.  "…because of a woman."

Spike felt his jaw go lax, his lips parting slightly.  Again, the old man was right.  And like so many times before, he knew he shouldn't have been surprised.

He'd known it all along.

"I suppose I should stop taking women so lightly then, huh?"  There was a sadness tainting his light-hearted remark.  He slipped a hand in his pocket, jangling the contents idly.  Keeping his back to Bull, he slowly pulled out the key from the Swordfish.  After countless seconds spent in silent introspection, he turned, tossing the key to the ground behind him.  Delicate mounds of sand flattened in its wake.

"She's yours now, old man."  He turned away from him again, letting his shoes fall to the ground, taking the time to pull on his jacket.  "I don't want her anymore."

He ducked out of the teepee, lingering just outside long enough to light up a cigarette.  He had a long walk ahead of him, but he didn't mind.  He'd need the time to think.


	2. Memory

_I will remember you._

_Will you remember me?_

_Don't let your life pass you by._

_Weep not for memories._

--SARAH MCLACHLAN

Memory 

She could send it anonymously.  No one would ever have to know where it came from.

An odd sense of déjà vu swept over her, and she wondered why.  She didn't dwell on it too long, though.  It was a common occurrence for someone such as herself.  She imagined there would always be some things that she could never quite remember.

She sat perfectly still on the floor of her bedroom, amidst piles of clothes and boxes of various sizes, her legs tucked beneath her.  She didn't know how long she'd been like that, though she did know that she wasn't quite ready to move.  No, not yet.

In her lap was an old trench coat, filthy and mangled, and covered in bloodstains.  She fingered the collar delicately, another hand smoothing the wrinkles from a random patch of fabric, tracing the outline of a bullet hole.  Underneath the blood and the gunpowder, it still smelled like him.

She closed her eyes, hugging the coat to her chest as the memories came.

****

"We're too late, Faye."

She knelt at the foot of an ominous staircase, oblivious to Jet's words.  Vicious lay dead, his syndicate scattered, his headquarters in shambles.  The smell of blood and smoke was overwhelming.  From above, a glorious sun shown down upon the carnage, revealing every gruesome detail, chasing away every shadow.  She shivered in spite of its warmth, her eyes fixed on Spike's coat, laying a few steps above her, and the patch of grotesquely stained carpet next to it.  But there was no Spike.

"He's not dead.  He can't be dead."  She hadn't meant to speak the words out loud, her voice a tearful whisper.

"Faye—"

"No!"  She was shouting now, crawling up the steps and reaching for the coat, desperation and grief controlling her actions.  "He's hurt, Jet, we have to find him…" 

His jaw set, Jet clenched his fists, watching Faye awkwardly ascend the few steps between her and Spike's coat, squeezing his eyes shut only when he saw that she'd gotten blood all over her.  In the distance, he could hear approaching police sirens.  He was thankful for the distraction.

Faye didn't hear him coming, nauseous from the smell of blood—Spike's blood—that permeated the clothing in her hand.  She was mumbling, talking to herself.  "He's been hurt worse than this.  He's alive, I know he is.  He's not here, so, he has to be, he _has_ to be…"

Her reaction was delayed as Jet wrapped one arm around her waist to pull her up.  She began to scream again, bucking against him, clutching the coat in one hand while she tried to elbow him in the ribs, her legs kicking at the air.  He said nothing, only wrapped the other arm around for a better grip, his face solemn has he carried her down the stairs.

"No!  NO!  SPIKE!  _SPIKE!!  SPIIIKE!!"_

****

Echoes of the past ringing in her ears, Faye let out a shaky breath, lowering the coat back into her lap, a soft, sad laugh given as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"What are you crying for, Faye?" she chided to herself.  "He's alive, isn't he?"

Sniffling, she folded the coat and set it aside, pausing to gather herself together.  She stood, returning to the task of cleaning out her closet.  She had a long night ahead of her if she was to finish packing before morning.

Tomorrow, she would make a trip to the post office.


	3. Catching Up with the Past

**Catching Up with the Past**

After years in the ISSP, and even more spent hunting criminals for cash, Jet had learned long ago what curiosity got you.

He glanced at his prosthetic arm, a wry smirk fixed upon his dark countenance.  On the table before him sat a neatly wrapped parcel, the brown parchment lightly smudged from too much handling.  Several labels and stamps partially obscured the certified mail sticker, but it was enough to reveal the package's original destination.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and swiping a hand over his face.  Earlier, he'd been angry, tired of all the drama and the mystery, fed up with the past's inability to stay in the past—a bitter reminder of all the time he'd wasted.  He really was just getting too old for this shit.

He tore his gaze reluctantly from the bundle, to the handset sitting next to it.  He'd been playing a game of back-and-forth for nearly an hour.  Damn sense of justice and duty, he silently chastised, folding his arms over his chest stubbornly.  He just wished he could throw the stupid thing away and be done with it.  No harm, no fowl, and hell, it wasn't like the Bebop was sent a parcel addressed to Spike all the time.  Maybe it'd be better if he never got it.

Jet growled, averting his focus to a spot on the wall.  After a minute, he chanced another sidelong glimpse towards the package.  It was still there…waiting.

"Ah, dammit," he grumbled, snatching the phone as he stood, his agitation nearly causing him to knock his chair over in the process.  Punching familiar digits into the keypad, he walked over to a nearby window, leaning upon the frame as he held the receiver to his ear.  The Ganymede seascape was just as breathtaking as ever, and had he not been so pissed, he might have taken the time to appreciate the view.

"Nothing but trouble," he muttered, though his voice betrayed a subtle melancholy.

*****

Eight months.  Eight months, and seeing him again made it all seem like yesterday.

Of course, there were subtle differences.  The suit was gone, replaced by faded blue jeans and an old, but clean, tee shirt.  The jacket was different, too, but he still pulled the collar up.  He carried himself the same way, thin as ever, with his head bowed a little, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his hands shoved in his pockets.  And of course, he couldn't forget the hair.  It was like a beacon, that frizzy mop of his; no one else had hair like that.

Jet couldn't help but smile in spite of himself.

They stood appraising one another from a distance, both apprehensive, each lost in his own thoughts.  Jet finally stepped forward, unfolding his arms to extend a hand.  "Hey, Spike."

Spike gazed at the proffered hand warily, perhaps a little taken back by the formality of the gesture.  With a shrug, he drew a hand from his pocket, giving Jet's a firm shake.  "Hey, Jet."

Jet let his hand fall away, and after a moment's pause, nodded once, as though satisfied with the course of the meeting thus far.  His eyes scanned the busy spaceport, and he juggled the idea of saying anything else before finally turning round and gesturing for Spike to follow.

"Come on.  I'll buy you lunch."

Spike fell into step beside him a few seconds later, a cocky grin on his face.  "You sure you can afford my appetite?"

Jet chuckled, shaking his head as he trudged forward through the crowd.  "I managed for eight years, didn't I?"

It was Spike's turn to laugh.  "Yeah, I guess you did."

****

"So…who's it from?"

There were sitting in one of the many bars that catered to the hordes of fisherman who composed the majority of Ganymede's population, the atmosphere heavily laced with smoke and a heady mix of odors.  It had done nothing to quell Spike's legendary love of food, though, and, having momentarily satisfied their growling stomachs, they were now discussing the package that sat, untouched, between the two of them.

Jet took a long drag from his cigarette, holding his breath as he shrugged.  "How the hell should I know?" he replied, puffs of smoke billowing out with every syllable.  He exhaled the rest, eyes searching the table for an ashtray; finding none, he frowned, casting a sly glance over both shoulders before flicking his ashes onto the floor.  "It went to the Bebop, then got forwarded to me.  Apparently, _you_ never bothered to leave a forwarding address when you sold her."

Spike almost winced, briefly donning a tight smile instead.  "Uh, oh, yeah.  I meant to tell you about that."

"No, you didn't.  It doesn't matter, anyway."  He sighed.  "Perhaps I shouldn't have left her to you.  I just…didn't want her anymore."

Spike toyed with his lighter, tapping the tabletop, slumped low in his chair.  "I know the feeling."

Jet's eyes narrowed, his cigarette perched between his lips, arms crossed.  There were so many questions that dared to be asked, but he couldn't find the words, and when it came right down to it, he really didn't have the right to ask them.  He watched the younger man, unable to read his blank expression, unable to decipher any hidden meanings in the way he slouched, or the way he was examining the package.  He wondered just what the hell it was about Spike that suddenly made him wish, if only for a second, that absolutely nothing had changed.

"Well," he ventured after several minutes of quiet contemplation, "you gonna open it, or what?"

Mismatched eyes flickered towards him, then back at the package.  Almost reluctantly, Spike pushed himself up, slowly reaching forward to pick up the parcel.  It was a little hefty for a box of its size, forcing him to abandon his lighter on the table and use both hands.  He held it up to his ear, giving it an experimental shake.  He shrugged at the chuckle he got from Jet, setting the package in front of him, deft fingers working to tear open the parchment. 

"You can never be too careful."

Jet nearly barked this time, almost losing his cigarette as his shoulders shook with laughter.  Spike frowned at him, tearing away the last remnants of the wrapping.  A plain cardboard box gave no hint as to what might be inside.

Jet sobered, though he retained a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eye. "Oh, Spike, I never would've thought I'd hear those words coming from you."

Spike cocked a brow at him as he examined the box, reaching in his back pocket to fetch a small knife.  "Well, here it is.  The moment of truth."

Jet leaned forward, taking one last puff before tossing the butt with a quick flick of his wrist.  All traces of mirth disappeared, folding his arms on the table and focusing on the box as Spike cut through the packing tape.  Spike set the knife aside before exchanging glances with Jet, then, taking a deep breath, he folded back the flaps and peeked inside.

"What the hell—?"

Jet craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse.  "What is it?"

Spike didn't answer him, confusion and curiosity marring his features as he reached inside and pulled out what looked to be an old trench coat.  His brow furrowed as he held the accessory up for inspection, noting the splotches, the gashes, and holes that littered the brown material.  Realization dawned, and his stomach churned uneasily, turning a penetrating stare on Jet.  The older man's eyes were wide, mouth ajar in a look of shock.

"Jet?" Spike ventured, lowering the coat to his lap, his hands fisting around the fabric.

Jet blinked, as though torn from a vision.  He jaw moved, but no words would come.  After a moment, he seemed to gather his wits about him, shaking his head in disbelief, staring down at his lap.  "I can't believe she held on to that thing."

Spike leaned forward, searching Jet's face, his tone demanding a straight answer.  "Who?  What the hell are you talking about?"

Propping an elbow on the table, Jet rested his forehead in his palm, his breath coming out in a low groan.  "Faye, Spike.  Faye sent that to you."

Time seemed to stand still.  Spike blinked once, twice.  A brief silence passed, before being broken by the sound of his chair scraping the floor.  Jet's head jerked up, his features softening at the sight of Spike looking down the relic in his hands.  It was evident he was reliving the events of that day, so very, very long ago; it struck Jet, then, how unfortunate it was that the past was so much harder to forget when it was bad, and nearly impossible to remember when it was good.

Spike suddenly stood, clutching the coat in one hand, barely giving Jet the opportunity to protest as he meandered through the bar, narrowly avoiding tables, chairs, and people, and never once looking back.  Jet had pushed himself to his feet without realizing it, whatever words he'd meant to say dying on his lips.  

Numb, he lowered himself back into his seat.

Fuck justice and duty.  Fuck curiosity.  The next time, it was going in the trash.


	4. Game Over

Sometimes, baby 

_We make mistakes_

_Dark and hazy_

_Prices we pay…_

_…Some day, maybe_

_We'll make it right_

_Until that day_

_Long endless nights_

_We couldn't say them_

_So now we just pray them_

Words that we couldn't say 

--SEATBELTS featuring STEVE CONTE

Game Over 

She was doing well.  So much better than he and Jet ever would.  It pained him to know that she would've probably never prospered had she stayed on the Bebop.  She considered that period in her life to be a blight in the grander scheme of things, something she wanted to wash away completely from her life.  At least, that's what he'd thought.

All this time, she'd been lying to herself.  He had the proof right there in his hands.

He concentrated on breathing slowly, deeply.  Watched from a darkened alley as she went through the motions, doing the good citizen bit and contributing to the gross national product.  She really did pull it off so beautifully, slipping into her new skin with a finesse and calculated determination that reminded him of the Faye he'd come to know so many years ago.

She'd wanted him to think she'd changed, when, in fact, she really hadn't changed at all.  Circumstances changed.  People never did.

He tore his gaze away from her, lifting his old coat up for contemplative inspection.  She thought he was better off being a ghost?  Then he'd give her a fucking ghost.

****

"G'night, Ms. Pierrepont."

Faye gave a lazy wave to the last remaining employee in the restaurant.  " 'Night, Ray," she replied, slipping out the front door as he returned to his mopping.  She stifled a yawn, eager to get home and crawl into bed.  Her delicate features were weary, marred by a subtle frown, disappointed that she hadn't been able to get away sooner.

She'd been meaning to visit the cemetery.  It had been nearly two months since Susan's passing, marking not only the death of her only sibling, but her memories as well.  Her sister had been the last person in her family to know Faye before the accident, before the cryogenic hibernation.  Now, all that she had were unreliable snippets of her own memory and a bunch of faded photo albums.

Oh, and the beta.  She managed to still hang on to that.  After all, it was an antique.  Just like her.

She cursed as her car key fell from her hands to the pavement.  She was so damn tired.  Too tired, in fact, to be wary of the shadows, or mindful of what might be in them.  One might say domesticity had softened her.

She had crouched to scoop up her keys when a movement out of the corner of her eye caused her to freeze.  There, at the mouth of an alley.  She straightened slowly, all drowsiness chased away by a rush of adrenaline.  She took a breath to speak, but the effort died as a man came forward, his countenance bathed in shadow.  She didn't need to see his face to know the silhouette.

"Spike." She whispered, the syllable tremulous and reverent, like a hushed prayer.

She was proud of herself.  No tears sprang to her eyes, and she could still breathe.  It was still to be seen how long she could hold out.  She was determined, though, as they'd stared at one another silently, not to let him get to her this time.  She was past all that.  She'd moved on.  It didn't bother her anymore.  It really didn't.

He stepped into the lamplight, and her resolve faltered for an instant.  Because he was wearing the coat.  _The_ coat.

"Is this how you want to remember me, Faye?"  His voice was very low, almost menacing.  A cold glint in his eyes shown through the eerie shadows that played upon his face.

Her first reaction was to tell the truth.  It took no real creativity and, in situations like this, really was more appropriate.  Lying, however, came so much easier to her where Spike was concerned.  Much, much easier.  She decided a long time ago that letting him see anything past the façade she'd adopted as Faye Valentine only gave him the upper hand in the end.  It all came down to whoever had the better poker face.  Sure, their last encounter left her in the rut, but she still had a few tricks up her sleeve.  He wasn't playing fair, donning that old coat again and showing up out of nowhere to act like some kind of new world boogeyman.

"I'd rather not remember you at all, Spike."  Yep.  She could still be a bitch.

His jaw clenched as he took another step forward.  "So that's why you kept this torn-up rag for five years?  You're not very convincing, Faye."

Her hands balled into fists at her sides, her keys digging painfully into one palm.  Focus, Faye.  You can handle him.  It's just Spike.  Lunkhead.  Fuzzball.  Whatever.

"I mean," he began wryly, keeping his hands in the pockets of the coat as he held his arms out from his lanky form, inspecting the bullet-ridden accessory with one brow raised in disgust, "what the hell did you expect me to do when I got your little gift?"  He raised his eyes back to her, no longer hiding the anger that he felt.  "Send you a fucking 'thank you' card?"

She rolled her eyes and began moving towards her car, the shock of seeing him wearing off so that she was no longer rooted to the ground.  "You know, Spike, you can stick it up your ass for all I care."  She really did amaze even herself sometimes.  That line had come off sounding even more indifferent than she'd meant it to.

"Oh, no, you're not," she heard him growl under his breath.  She didn't bother to turn around though, intent on ending it on her terms.  Always on her terms from now on.  The world no longer revolved around Spike Spiegel.  She would make him see that somehow.

She suppressed the urge to wince when he grabbed her elbow and spun her round to face him.  He'd shucked the trench coat, having left it lie on the sidewalk like so much trash.  Which it was, of course.  Silly of her, to have sent garbage in the mail.

"I'm not letting you get away this time, Faye.  We—"

"—have absolutely nothing to discuss," she interjected evenly, her countenance placid.  She glanced pointedly at her arm, and after a moment he got the hint, releasing her.  He straightened, slipping his hands into the pockets at the back of his jeans, glowering down on her, though to her it looked more like a stubborn pout.

She shrugged, reflexively taking a step back from him, wanting to expand her options aside from either craning her neck to look at his face, or having his chest fill her vision.  Too close, and he just might be able to see right through her.  "So, I made a mistake.  I shouldn't have sent you the coat.  We're human, Spike.  It's our nature to make mistakes.  You of all people should know that well enough."

She turned away from him again, silently chalking another point on the board in her favor.

****

Spike's head rolled back, eyes turned heavenward as he shouted at the sky. One hand rubbed the side of his face, a frustrated moan escaping before he directed his gaze towards her retreating form.  God, what a fucking piece of work.  "For fuck's sake, Faye, can you cut the shit?!  The last thing I need is you to remind me of my mistakes.  I live with the consequences every goddamn day of my life!"

She'd reached her car, a soft beep, as the alarm was disabled and the doors unlocked.  She spoke slowly and deliberately without bothering to look at him, as if explaining a lesson to a child.  "It's how you learn, Spike."

"Oh, so that's how it goes, huh?"  Long, stealthy strides closed the distance between them, one hand shooting out to slam her car door before she could climb in.  He leaned forward, daring her to look him in the eye.  "And what have I learned, then, Faye?  I'll tell you, just so you won't have to find out the hard way.  Consider it friendly advice."  He plowed on, impatience punctuating every syllable, ignoring her efforts to dismiss him with another roll of her eyes as she crossed her arms.  "I've learned it's better not to trust someone 'cause generosity doesn't exist.  I've learned that there's a very fine line between what's a dream, and what's real, so fine that sometimes, it's like it's not there at all."  His voice had lost its vehemence, now more reminiscent, introspective, and he could tell his words were getting through to her, her face softening, little by little.  "And I've learned…" he paused, holding out until her curiosity made her finally look at him in anticipation.  "I've learned that there's no use running from the past, because it always catches up with you."

That did the trick.  A pang of regret seemed to pass like a shadow over the fragile lines of her face, quickly replaced a look of pure exhaustion.  So, she was just as tired with it all as he was.  That evened it up a bit.

"What do you want, Spike?"  She spoke in a tone that so far apart from the way he was used to hearing: soft, and silky, and so, so weary.  It made demanding anything of her that much harder, but he hadn't spent all that time tracking her down for nothing.

"Straight answers," he murmured, sensing the turnabout in the conversation.  Dangerous territory ahead, a tiny voice seemed to whisper.  He didn't care.  Moving forward was better than standing still.

She laughed bitterly, her eyes everywhere but on him, and he took advantage of it, letting his gaze roam over the subtle differences that worked together to completely transform her into a new person.  A lot more clothes, a lot more hair, a lot less make-up.  Had he really lived and worked with this person and not seen a hint of the woman that stood fidgeting before him now?

"Who's asking the questions?" she inquired cynically, shuffling to lean back against her car.  He took the opportunity to move closer, taking up a spot next to her, shoulder bearing his weight.  He watched the toe of his boot tap and scrape along the pavement, taking his time to come up with a reply.

"I think we both have some things that haven't been said," he finally stated, almost sounding apologetic, though he didn't know why.

She sighed after an extended silence, seemingly allowing herself to succumb to whatever it was he had in mind.  "Fine."  She pushed herself up, gesturing to the other side of the car as she moved to open her door.  "Get in."

He held back a smile, wanting to believe that the hard part was over.  He knew better.

It was going to be a very long night.


	5. Is This Real?

Set my mind for open sky, but couldn't fly, so sadly 

_What am I?  What am I?_

_Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies then criticize, now laughing_

_What is real?  What is real?_

_It's really all become too much_

_I'm not sure what I should feel_

_I guess I've finally had enough_

_I don't know if this is real_

_I'm crashing in and out of touch_

_Can anyone explain?_

--SEATBELTS featuring SCOTT MATTHEW

**Is This Real?**

"Jet told me you wouldn't let him sell the Swordfish.  That you wouldn't let him get rid of anything."

Spike wandered aimlessly around Faye's living room, occasionally pausing to inspect a photo or trinket out of idle curiosity.  He'd waited patiently as she'd gotten a shower, biding his time, wondering just what the hell he thought he was doing, and what he planned on achieving in coming there.  She hadn't spoken to him when she'd finally rejoined him, dressed in a terry cloth robe and a towel on her head, having made a beeline for the kitchen to make some coffee.   And now, having broken the silence himself, she still said nothing, so he chanced a quick peek over his shoulder, the sink and cabinets visible over a stylish partition that separated the kitchen from the open dining room and living area.  She was busy moving something around, her back to him, and it seemed she was behaving as if he wasn't there at all.

"He also said that you wouldn't let him into my old room."  He slowly approached the partition, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.  "Said that you went nuts when he'd left the door open once."

Her movements were jerky, and he knew now that she was making a pointed effort not to face him.  Unconsciously, he slipped his hands into his pockets, averting his gaze to the hardwood floor at his feet.  He listened as she opened and shut one of the cabinets, as the coffee stopped brewing, as she fetched something from the refrigerator.  A deep breath developed into a long sigh.  So now she wasn't talking.  Lovely.

"Faye—"

_Crash._  "Shit!"

He was startled into silence, glancing up just in time to see Faye disappear behind the partition, crouching to begin cleaning up whatever had fallen to the floor.  He reacted instinctively, darting to the entrance of the kitchen to investigate the damage, then squatting alongside her to help.  He noticed her hands were shaking as she gathered the pieces of the mug that had broken, but didn't bother to look at her face until he heard her choke on a sob.  He ached at the sight of her, eyes squeezed tight, features contorted into a mask of profound despair.  She sniffled, trying after a moment to blink back her tears, but her shoulders were already shaking, so she gave up, rising quickly and covering her face with her hands.

He didn't know what to do, although, he felt he ought to have figured it out by now.  After all, it seemed she did nothing but cry around him since his return to the realm of the living.  Clearing the lump in his throat, he continued picking up the pieces of ceramic, deciding to try and make light of the situation.  "Gees, Faye, it was only a coffee cup—"

"Oh, goddammit!" she cried, effectively cutting him off, unabashedly weeping now, though she sounded more angry than anything.  She grabbed another cup sitting on the countertop and hurled it across the room, shattering it and causing several framed portraits to fall from the wall.  "Fuck the coffee cup!  Spike…" she had to pause to catch her breath, unwrapping the towel upon her head so that she could wipe the tears from her face, frustration making her movements erratic and imprecise.  She threw the towel in to the dining room, narrowly missing the candelabra on the dining table.

Spike's brow furrowed inquisitively, wondering just what the hell had spawned such as outburst.  He straightened slowly, wary eyes watching to ensure she found nothing else to pitch.

She was going on, her words interrupted occasionally by heart-wrenching sobs.  "Would you just please, _please_ tell me wha-at you're doing here?  What is it that you want?  Just hurry up…a-and get on with your questions so that I can go to bed and wake up tomorrow to try and go back to li-iving a…normal life!"

Whoa.

Spike took a step back, the gravity of her words stunning him.  He was suddenly inclined to feel guilty for being there, intruding upon the life that she'd apparently worked so hard to build after his…leaving.  But then, he reminded himself of what it was that had prompted him to barge in on her in the first place.  He squashed the temptation to throw that in her face, knowing she probably regretted having done anything to have brought him here enough anyway.  Instead, he waited until her sniffling had subsided, picked a random tile to focus on, and prepared to voice the one question that had been at the back of his mind, eating away at him, for the past two years.

"You told me last time we met…"  He paused, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to speak more clearly.  "You said that Faye Valentine loved me once."

Silence descended heavily, augmenting the already palpable tension between the two of them.  His gaze flickered briefly to take note of Faye, who'd put a hand over her mouth to muffle her hiccups.  She was staring at the stove, one arm wrapped around her abdomen, shocks of damp hair falling forward to partially obscure her face.  One more deep breath as he rolled his shoulders back, hands slipping into his pockets again.

"Is it true?"  The inquiry was soft, subtle, made as though speaking too loudly would send the world tumbling down around them.

She began shaking her head slightly, pushing away from where she was standing to brush past him, raking her hands through her damp hair wearily.  "What does it matter now?" she asked, her voice raw from crying.  She paused at the other side of the kitchen, perhaps feeling safer knowing she had an escape route.  "I'm not the same person I was then."

Spike turned halfway round, canting his head to look at her as he spoke.  "Changing your last name doesn't change who you are, Faye."  Barely a whisper that time.

She shifted, now facing him, arms hugging her small frame, looking vulnerable and very, very tired.  Red-rimmed emerald eyes rose, leveling with his for the first time since they'd gotten to her apartment.  He saw them slowly fill with fresh tears, but did nothing, knowing he was only seconds away from an answer.  Her eyes narrowed, the tears spilling out and over newly chapped cheeks, coursing their way to her trembling chin.  But she didn't look away.

"Yes."  Her voice had failed her, that one word nearly lost before it made it to her lips.  She didn't stop at that one word, however, catching her breath and finally breaking away under the weight of his stare.  "There, are you happy now?  Have I satisfied your ego enough for one night?  Do you feel better knowing that you broke the 'untouchable shrew woman'?"

Her words sunk in slowly, rendering him speechless.  It was hard to digest, knowing now that not only had his disappearance hurt her, but it had also somehow changed her, leaving a scar upon her life--a scar that reopened into a gaping wound whenever he was around.  He brooded in silence, hooded gaze watching as she began to repair the damage she'd done by throwing the mug, softly crying, though whether she'd cried for him or herself, he wasn't sure.  Heart heavy, he moved to her side, so that he could see her profile at least, keeping a safe distance between them.  He was beginning to feel angry; at himself, for ever thinking he could've done any good by coming to see her; at Jet, for not throwing away that fucking package when he'd had the chance; at life in general, feeling it should've all ended years ago.  He didn't know why he was alive.  He didn't know why he was there.  He didn't know where he was going.  And all this ignorance, compiled with the knowledge that everything he'd ever done in his life amassed into a fabulous collection of mistakes, only served to feed his growing rage.

He took a few breaths, closing his eyes in an effort to clear his mind, not wanting to lose his cool, especially when Faye had done nothing wrong.  Absolutely nothing.  It seemed the roles had reversed.  She was the one keeping it together, while he was the one consistently fucking up.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw she had paused while hanging up a photograph, small hands lightly resting on the gilded frame.  Her sobs had subsided, and she seemed to be lost in the portrait, perhaps even conjuring up some long forgotten memory that had chosen at that moment to return and comfort her.  If any uncertainty about whether his being there was right or wrong had existed before, no doubts remained now.

"I shouldn't have come," he murmured, his gaze never wavering.  "I only did it because…I wanted to see if you were happy, Faye.  To get a glimpse of the woman I never saw on the Bebop."

She lowered her hands, letting them hang limply, not bothering to turn her eyes towards him as he spoke.

"But now—" He laughed bitterly, backing slowly towards the door to the apartment, shaking his head and shrugging.  "I realize if I wanted to see her, I should've just kept to the shadows."  He paused with one hand on the doorknob, his jacket clutched in one hand.  "Because I could never make her happy."

He slipped out, the soft click of the door echoing with poignant finality.

****

So, he was leaving—again.  And this time, she was letting him.  No guns shooting, no more wasted tears, no more cries falling on deaf ears.  It was better this way.  She'd found where she belonged.  And that was the very best thing.

Wasn't it?

Faye stood motionless, still staring blankly at a faded, cracked photograph of her and Susan, vacationing on the beach.  She'd been fourteen.  They'd both gotten sunburned that day, but that had been okay because they'd at least gotten to see a real, live dolphin.

She couldn't remember any of it.  Susan had explained it to her.  Susan had explained a lot to her.  But not enough.  Never enough.  And now, Susan was dead.  Her little sister, looking old enough to be her grandmother, was gone, and there would be no one else to tell her about all the pictures and photo albums…

A normal life?  Is that what she'd said?  Who the hell was she kidding?

She let her head fall forward, her chin nearly resting against her chest, closing her eyes to allow whatever memory found precedence to come forward.

Eyes that were different colors.

She gasped, eyes opening wide, head jerking up.  "Oh, God, _Spike_."

He was leaving.  She didn't have a gun handy, but she couldn't let him go.

****

He was nearly a block from her building when he heard her calling his name.

He was still under the influence of his frustration, and so his first thought was that she'd come down so that she could get the last word in.  Typical, sarcastic, obnoxious Faye.  He was perfectly aware without anyone else's help that he'd made an ass of himself.  He didn't need her rubbing his face in it.

Still, her voice sounded pretty desperate…

He slowed his pace, finally stopping altogether, hearing the sound of bare feet slapping against the pavement.  He didn't face her, though.  He'd listen to what she had to say, and if was anything like he thought it would be, then he'd just pick up right where he left off and keep walking.

She was a little breathless from running, and had pulled up short when he had.  He wondered idly if she'd chased him down still only wearing her robe, or if she the reason she'd taken so long was because she'd had to don the right outfit for the moment.  He smirked at the thought, but it fizzled out, having recalled that he'd heard bare feet.  Oh, well.  Maybe she just didn't have time for shoes.

"It's a lie, Spike."

He cocked a brow, his theory dissipating, though not entirely.  He turned his head a bit, to let her know he was listening.

There was an uncertain pause, and although he didn't hear her move toward him, her voice was closer this time.  "All this time, I thought I found where I belonged.  I thought that if I stayed with Susan, I'd find a whole new me, that, in time…" Another pause, as she drew even closer.  "…I'd discover the real Faye."

He did nothing, feeling more content to stay as he was, afraid she'd close up at the slightest inclination.  If she were having an epiphany, well…the back of his head would have to do.

"And?" he prompted, after the silence had gone on a little too long for his liking.  He hadn't meant for his voice to come out sounding so gruff, wincing inwardly at how harsh he must have seemed.

"I was lying to myself the whole time," she replied softly, now standing just behind him.  Her voice was sorrowful, but he thought he detected a glimmer of hope as well.  "There never was another Faye.  No other skin that I could slip comfortably into.  No way to shed the one I wear now.  And the only time this Faye was ever truly happy, though it may not have seemed so obvious at the time…" She trailed off, a low, bittersweet chuckle interrupting her words.

He was hanging on by a thread.  He'd be damned if he was moving now.

She sobered, all signs of mirth chased away as she continued.  "….The only time was the day I found out you were alive."

The hairs at his nape stood on end, a chill traveling up his spine.  She was so close, it was as though he could already feel her, though she wasn't quite touching him yet.  Her voice had faded into a whisper that he could barely detect.  "So you see…" she began, closing the tiny gap that remained between them as she snaked her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek into his back, "you can make me happy.  So very happy."

She squeezed him gently, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head back in reverence to whatever god had decided, for once, to smile down on him, to let him know that he really had done the right thing.

He heard her sniffle, felt her rubbing her face against his coat.  "I'm so glad you're alive."  And the sobs began anew, but this time, they came from an entirely different place, and he didn't feel so bad about making her cry.  "I missed you, Lunkhead.  I missed you so much."

Okay.  He could definitely turn around now.  Because more than anything, he needed to hug her back.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

She was exhausted.  Her limbs felt languorously heavy and sore; her vision swam as she tried to focus upon the ceiling fan spinning slowly above her bed.  Still, she would not succumb to sleep.

Surrounded by the soft light of her bedroom, she smiled.

A satisfying weight rested upon her abdomen, shifting slightly with every breath that she took.  Overcoming her body's want for immobility she canted her head, her hair tickling her neck as she adjusted for a better view.  In her head the same chant that had been echoing for the past few hours continued:  _This is real, this is real…this is real._

Oh, but nothing this good could be real.

Tentatively, she lifted a tired hand to caress a mass of dark curls, curls that would be green in better light.  In response, he rubbed his cheek against the smooth skin of her stomach, as if to move even closer, his arms tightening around her naked hips possessively.  

So, he was awake, too.

She resisted the urge to let out a luxurious sigh of contentment, unsure of what the morning would bring.  It would be too much to hope for him to still be there.  Too much to hope that this one night was anything more than a release of pent up frustrations.  She knew better than to place her expectations so high when it came to Spike.

She wasn't disappointed, or sad.  She wouldn't regret.  It was a moment of pure bliss, of unadulterated happiness.  She wouldn't wish for something more.  She wanted to let him know, but as soon as her sleepy voice broke the comfortable silence, she silently admonished herself for saying anything at all.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to.  You can leave."

She felt him stiffen, though the distinction was exceptionally subtle.  She closed her eyes, grimacing at her inability to have just let the moment be.

His response was quicker than she expected, his voice thick with quiet determination.  "I'm not leaving, Faye."  She felt his words as he spoke, every syllable a puff of air upon her skin, his jaw moving against her stomach.

She opened her eyes, focusing again on the ceiling, head sinking further back into her pillow.  She swallowed the lump in her throat, amazed by how much that statement meant to her.  He was moving, tilting his head this way and that, and she imagined she could feel the tip of his nose tracing a circle around her navel.  She let her eyes fall closed again, her fingers burying themselves in his hair.

His forehead rested lightly upon her middle as he continued, her lower half pressed against his chest, one hand moving from beneath her to gently run along the curve of a hip, then a thigh.  "I've done nothing but survive for far too long.  I want to start living again."

Blinking rapidly, she felt her heart racing, afraid to ask what exactly he was implying.  She struggled to find her voice, words escaping in a hesitant whisper.  "With me?"

He pulled himself up, sliding along the length of her body, propping himself upon his elbows so he could stare down on her.  Her hands splayed on either side of his torso of their own accord as she fought to hold his gaze.  For a deliciously long time, he did nothing but stare, feasting upon her with his eyes.  She was beyond blushing, letting him look as long as he liked, content to be the object of his attentions, though somewhat breathless with anticipation.  Whatever his answer, she reminded herself, she would not be sad.  She would not regret.

He smiled then, as if he was enjoying this lingering suspense and its effect on her.  She couldn't help but smile in return, a futile effort to prove she wasn't affected in the least.  They both knew better.

"Yes.  With you."  His declaration was very soft, but all the more sincere for it as he bowed his head, his mouth finding hers with a familiarity that surprised her.  His palms gently cradled her face, the kiss as profound as his words.  Inwardly, she was reeling from the impact of what he'd said; it was all she could do to respond to the demands of his lips and tongue.

When at last the kiss had been broken, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, both breathless with renewed desire, she summoned a wider smile, nodding slightly, silently assuring herself that, yes, this was indeed very, very real.

"Okay," she murmured, too overwhelmed to say anything more.

_That's it for now, kiddies.  For more fanfic, you can check out my website, www.angelfire.com/electronic/pseudoself.  Later._


End file.
